Brewed Awakening Café, Manchester, New Hampshire

Second week of November

There were no empty tables, not one in the entire coffee shop.

Sandor blew out a frustrated breath as he turned away from the cash register, coffee and sandwich in hand, and scanned the place. He never came here for longer than the five minutes it took to buy his food and run back across the street to return to work. But he had just wanted a half-hour out of his damned gym , for once; to hear chattering voices and smell coffee instead of grunting, sweaty men power-lifting in the background.

There was a single table whose seats weren't completely full; just one woman sat there. She faced away from him, her long red hair falling almost to her waist as she nursed a tall cup. He hated talking to strangers. Hated it. He knew the reception he'd get, the moment she saw the scars taking up almost half of his face. She'd be shocked but be too polite to refuse his request to share her table. Then she'd find she didn't want to finish her drink in the shop after all, stammer out an awkward farewell, perhaps offer a tense little smile, and flee.

But it was either that, or return to the gym. And since he'd been spending sixteen hours a day there, working on the expansion that would double its size, and lived in the apartment over it, he really, really didn't want to go back just then. Inhaling deeply, he made his way through the crowd, threading his way along the narrow space between the close-set tables.

"Excuse me," he said, trying to pitch his voice low, to garner as little attention as possible from the other customers.

"Yes?" she said, and tilted up a face that, had he been less of a stoic, would have made him gasp.

God, she was lovely, all rosebud mouth and winged auburn brows over china-blue eyes. He felt almost battered by her beauty, like it was a weapon she'd used to strike him unconscious. It took Sandor a full five seconds to recover himself enough to speak.

"There are no other empty seats. Do you mind if I join you?"

"Of course not!" And then she aimed a smile at him that felt like a laser shot to the heart. He barely felt his legs as he lowered himself into the spindly, too-small chair opposite her.

"Thanks," he managed, and turned his gaze down to his meal, intending to eat his overpriced hipster sandwich as quickly as possible and leave her in peace.

"I was just thinking how good it would be to have company," she said, still beaming at him. "It's such a nice day."

Sandor stopped, sandwich halfway to his mouth, and stared at her. "You were?" he asked, stupidly. "It is?"

He'd thought the pouring rain, overcast sky, and near-freezing temperature the absolute worst kind of weather there was. He'd almost remained in the damned gym because he hadn't wanted to go out in that mess. Clearly, she defined 'nice day' very differently than he did.

"Well, maybe it's a little wet. And I guess it's kind of chilly. But there's something cozy about bundling up all warm, and having coffee in a bustling café like this while the rain beats on the windows, isn't there? And now I have someone to share it with."

"When you put it like that…" Sandor allowed, thinking maybe it might be cozy after all, and thinking maybe she could talk him into just about anything if she kept smiling at him like that.

"What's your name?" she asked. She took another bite of the lemon poppy seed muffin in front of her. "I'm Sansa."

He almost choked on the sandwich. " 'm Sandor," he mumbled around his mouthful.

"Ah, sorry," Sansa said with a laugh. "Didn't mean to make you talk with your mouth full."

"It's fine." He gulped his coffee, grimacing as it scalded all the way down.

Too hot. The coffee was too hot, and he was feeling distinctly hot under the collar in Sansa's presence. He felt like a gaping, bumbling fool, all thumbs because of her proximity across the little table. He'd seen beautiful women before, even dated a few of the crazier ones who'd condescended to being with him, but… his reaction to her was unprecedented. It was as if someone had gone through a checklist of his ideal woman's characteristics and ticked every single box.

"Do you work around here?" she asked. Her muffin was gone, and she was dabbing up crumbs with her fingertip, then licking them off with a little pink tongue that had Sandor feeling like he'd been stabbed in the belly. Oh, god.

"I own the gym across the street," he replied in a voice that sounded like gravel poured over asphalt. "I work as a personal trainer there, too."

"Aha!" Sansa gave a another laugh. "You must be quite fit, as well as big."

He had to smile at that, just a little. "It would look pretty bad if the owner were some wimpy schlub, yeah."

"It must be nice, being that strong." She sighed and lifted her arm. It was clear she was flexing her puny little bicep, though it was hidden under her bulky sweater, which was the color of rancid pumpkin. Sandor wondered how it made her look like she was lit from within. "I need to get a stronger grip. Sometimes my dog pulls away so hard I drop her harness."

Harness? That was an odd way to refer to a leash. Sandor let that thought drift away, because her cell phone rang. She excused herself with a smile that, just like the others, was adorable— god, he was feeling disgusted with himself for even thinking that word— and fished it out of her purse.

"Hello? Oh, hi, Arya! Five minutes? Okay, see you then! Thanks!"

She returned her flip phone— a flip phone! Sandor hadn't seen an under-50-year-old person use one in years— and apologized to him for the interruption.

At this point, he was feeling a little dizzy. Beautiful and sweet, with excellent manners? And, he realized in shock, she hadn't made a single reference to his scars, in word or gesture. She hadn't stared, or flicked her eyes back toward the hideous mess that was the left side of his face, or stammered. Not once.

Where had she been all his life?

"Do you come here often?" he asked, then winced. Just the world's most clichéed pick-up line ever. Smooth. "Ah… I didn't mean it like that."

Yes, you did. He wanted to pick her up, both literally and figuratively. And often. He had an idea that she would feel like heaven had been curled up into his arms.

She just laughed softly. "Yes, I have a weekly appointment in an office next door, so when I'm done with it, I wait here for my ride to come get me."

"Same day and time each week?" Sandor didn't even know what he was doing any more. He'd never in his life been this forward with a woman before.

A blush rose in her cheeks. His breath came a little faster at the sight of it. She looked down at her empty cup and smiled, a small, shy curve of lips that told him she was aware of his interest in her.

"Yes, same day and time each week."

"Would you have lunch with me here next week, then?" His tongue felt three sizes too large as it fumbled around the words. "I'd—"

Sandor was cut off by the arrival of a small, untidy hurricane.

"Sansa!" the hurricane exclaimed, spraying cold rain everywhere from her drenched, over-sized coat. "I'm double parked, we have to go! You know the groomer gets super pissed if we're late picking Lady up."

"Oh! Yes!" Sansa said, a little flustered. "Sandor, this is my sister Arya."

Arya shot a suspicious glance at him, which he tried to return with one of docile respectability. He doubted it would convince her. Men six and a half feet tall with a face like ten miles of bad road weren't too good at inspiring feelings of anything but fear and unease, generally.

Sansa reached for her coat, slung over the back of her chair. Sandor stood and reached for the garment, meaning to hold it for her, but Arya got there first, helping her sister into it and even adjusting the scarf so it lay snugly around Sansa's neck. Her gaze was like twin gunshots drilling through Sandor's sternum the entire time.

"Got your cane?" Arya asked. Her tone seemed like it was trying to communicate something to Sandor.

He stood beside the table, hovering over them, feeling intensely stupid and wondering if Sansa were injured, to need a cane, but he wasn't confused in the least why the girl would be so hostile toward him. Most people were.

"Yep!" Sansa dug around in her bag and pulled out a bundle of white sticks. She shook it out, and it became a red-tipped cane.

Sandor felt the blood leave his head.

She was blind.

It all made perfect sense, now— how she'd shown no surprise at his scars, how she'd been so at ease, how she'd seemed pleased instead of horrified with his clumsy flirting. He'd thought that maybe this glorious creature might find him appealing— somehow, magically— in spite of his ungainly huge body and repulsive face. But it had only been because she hadn't seen any of it in the first place.

He had been silent too long. He blinked, and realized that Sansa's head was drooping, like a sadly wilting flower, and her usually cheerful face was carefully blank. Arya was glaring at him like she'd like to actually shoot him through the sternum.

"It was nice to meet you," Sansa whispered. She looked on the verge of tears. Sandor felt like the worst human who'd ever lived.

With one last, searing glare promising dismemberment and agony, Arya led her sister away.

Stricken, Sandor watched as the girls left, Arya guiding Sansa into a beat-up catastrophe of a car haphazardly parked in the middle of the street and causing a huge traffic jam. It was only after they'd driven away that he sat back down to finish his meal. He took another few bites, but they all tasted like cardboard, now, and the coffee was bitter in his mouth. He threw it all away and went back to work.